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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27351334">Oh, George</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Farewell_to_Kings/pseuds/Farewell_to_Kings'>Farewell_to_Kings</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Beatles (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Death, Grief/Mourning, Halloween, Haunting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder, Undead</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:34:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,769</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27351334</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Farewell_to_Kings/pseuds/Farewell_to_Kings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Paul?" came Brian’s voice once again.<br/>"He's dead, isn't he?"<br/>Silence.<br/>“Brian— I’m right, aren’t I?”</p><p>---</p><p>In which George is gone, but not quite.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>George Harrison &amp; Paul McCartney, George Harrison/Paul McCartney</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Halloqueer 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. He's Gone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/blobfish_miffy/gifts">blobfish_miffy</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>On May 18th, 1967, several events occurred. Silver prices hit $1.60 an ounce in London, Heinz-Harald Frentzen was born and would go on to become an F1 driver, American and South Vietnamese troops crossed into the DMZ, but to Paul McCartney, the day would be remembered as a bad bout of insomnia. There was an electric energy in him, grabbing him by the neck and forcing him awake. He had the entire day off and it was nearing midnight, yet he wasn't tired. Even with his new velvety sheets and plush mattress, he tossed and turned. But the aura that possessed him was not fear or anxiety; it was excitement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After all, tomorrow was the press release for the new album. Brian already had planned a party and hired a slew of photographers. The album, a product Paul was positive was their best, was going to shake the world. He knew it, and apparently, his brain did too, thinking about the occasion and not how tired he was. He stared at the roof of his flat, the bumpy popcorn ceiling gazing back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After fifteen more minutes of laying there, painfully awake, he gave up. Paul rose, lumbered out of the bed, and went to his kitchen sink for a glass of water. Even if Sgt. Peppers was set for release, there was always the next album to work on. New songs, new concepts, whatever it was, there was always something to do. As the minutes of the night dragged on, he became painfully aware of how little was happening. After gulping down his water, he clicked on a small lamp and bent over his guitar case. The second he flung open the latches, the phone rang out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul let out a groan of annoyance; he got called right as he was about to get to work. It was past midnight, anyways, why would someone be up? Whoever it was could wait until morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The phone wailed out. Paul sat there as it kept ringing, nine times, ten times, eleven. If it was a prank, then whoever was responsible was very persistent. That, or it was an emergency. He sighed; if it was urgent, he'd never forgive himself for missing it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabbed the receiver with more force than needed and jerked it to his ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Paul—" a voice called, breathing heavily into the phone. It was Brian, obviously distraught.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Bri," Paul greeted, "something wrong?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you safe right now? Doors locked?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul blinked. "Yeah… why— Why're you asking?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You should sit down," Brian said, voice wavering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright," Paul hummed, not moving to sit. He doubted that whatever news Brian had was as earth-shattering as the older man made it out to be. "Was there a bomb threat or something?" he threw out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Brian was silent for a moment, then spoke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There's a madman on the loose."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay," Paul said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Paul," came Brian's pained voice, "he broke into George's house and stabbed him. I'm at the hospital now. Do you understand?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I— Harrison?" Paul squeaked out, a darker part of him begging that it was Sir Martin who was injured.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes," Brian said. "He— it doesn't look good. They won't let me in. There was a lot of blood."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Blood," Paul echoed, feeling the edges of the word as it fell from his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you certain you're safe?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul opened his mouth but nothing came out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Paul!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, I'm safe," he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you going to be alright?" Brian asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, I'll be fine. Should I— should I come?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"...no. I have to— I have to go now, but I'll call tomorrow," Brian said. "Just rest up, alright? And stay safe."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The line went dead. Paul did as he was told, turning off the lights and climbing into bed. But if his mind refused to settle before, now it was actively screaming at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George is dying, you have to do something!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After an hour of pretending to sleep, he got up and furiously scanned every radio channel. Surely there would be a report, an announcement, a warning, a sign. The closest he got to the news on George were reports about the assailant on the loose. Nothing about his friend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The clock passed one, two, before Paul turned the radio off. He should have asked Brian what hospital he was at. Brian should have told him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he realized that Brian would have told him, unless…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unless the situation was much direr than he made it seem. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul went back to his bed, all of his energy drained in an instant. He couldn't even think about George, already aware of what the bygone conclusion was. He laid down, pulled his comforter over his waist, and closed his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And in an instant, it became morning. He awoke, not to the rays of light slithering through his blinds, but to the shrill ringing of the phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't remember getting up, but he somehow was at the same spot as yesterday, feeling groggy and sick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Paul?" came Brian’s voice once again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He's dead, isn't he?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Brian— I’m right, aren’t I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” came Brian’s reply. “He was dead before the police could get him to the hospital. He bled out in the car.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul clutched the phone tighter until he could hear the handle creak. His knuckles were white, and his arm stung.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What should I do?” he asked. He always had to be moving, doing something, constantly moving to the future. He couldn’t afford to stay still now, not when he knew he’d turn into an inconsolable, sobbing mess.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s nothing much to do. Ms. Boyd’s gone to be with her sister while police were investigating the house.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul cringed at how quickly Brian referred to Pattie as </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ms. </span>
  </em>
  <span>instead of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mrs.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It already felt natural to do so. “What about the man who did it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They got him,” Brian said. “Clinically mad, completely insane. Turned himself in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were— you were close to his family. Do you want to visit them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Paul envisioned the Harrisons, George’s mother sobbing to her husband that her baby boy was gone, while he and his sons stood around desperately holding in their tears and pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was only twenty-four.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was like a wave had passed through him, every vein in his body clenching up and freezing over. He hunched over as he struggled to hold in the disgusting lump of emotion that clogged in his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Paul—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Speke,” Paul choked out. “I have to go—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to, not right now,” Brian’s calm voice said. “I know it hurts—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine— I just, I need a moment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take all the time you need. Do you want someone to visit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul smothered down a sob and shook his head, even if Brian couldn’t see it. As much as he craved someone else’s company right now, he couldn’t be seen like this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had lost his mother, he should be more accustomed to this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” croaked Paul. “I’ll be fine, I’m just shocked.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was a wonderful person,” Brian said. “He didn’t deserve what had happened to him, no one does. It’s unfair.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s— it’s a drag,” Paul numbly replied.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...yes, I suppose you could say that,” Brian muttered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And, uh, what about the band?” Paul muttered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can discuss that after the funeral,” Brian replied.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Paul whispered. It was tiring to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know how close you were to him. I’ll try to visit soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with that, the line went dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To be honest, the next week became a timeless blur, every second lingering for an eternity, but none of them memorable. Brian came to visit with Ringo, to reminiscence about George, but all Paul could think of— aside from the dull weight inside him— were his last words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn't remember them. As Ringo went on about how George valiantly took a punch to the face for the drummer years ago, all that came to mind was Paul disparaging him over his contributions to the album. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George's last words weren't "Goodbye," or "See you," they were most likely curses under his breath as he stalked out the studio, wondering why he was chained down by the band. As they drained the bottle of red wine Brian brought, more miserable thoughts bubbled to the surface. He was trying, but once Paul's mind left, he couldn't hear the anecdotes that Ringo was dispersing, only the bitter feeling that he had failed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The night ended with Paul more depressive than when it began. Brian explained how the funeral was at the end of the week, and the day after would be a public memorial.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul nodded and closed the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vaguely, he registered how he hadn't heard from John or anyone else for that matter. He was hiding, but he felt too ashamed to do anything about it. He just— Christ. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul crawled into his sprawling bed— he didn't neaten up before company came over, how unbecoming of him— and melted into the duvet. His eyelids slid closed before he saw a light in the corner of his eye. It was blueish in tint, most likely the television. He hoisted himself up—</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Paul."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>In the living room, all the lights were off. Yet the cold aura was still there, and now his head felt like it was stuffed with static. How much had he had to drink? Better yet, how little had he eaten?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I'm cold."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then pull on a robe," Paul huffed before freezing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why did he say that? And who was he talking to?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul involuntarily shivered and retreated to the bedroom, bundling up in sheets like it was the dead of winter. Amidst the rampant emotion in his heart was a new one: fear. He was afraid, he realized as he trembled, heart racing. It was as if something possessed him, making his brain scream that something was irrevocably wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steadying his breathing, he buried himself more into his cocoon, willing the darkness away. He counted every tick pounding out of his watch on the bedside table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One, two, three four.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wave of nausea had passed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Five, six, seven, eight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The heat returned to his fingertips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nine, ten, eleven, twelve.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Paul!"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul fell asleep instantly. At least, that's the way he'd describe it. In reality, he fainted, suddenly overcome with thoughts of </span>
  <em>
    <span>him. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It was like George was there, hairy and lanky and awkward and </span>
  <em>
    <span>beautiful, </span>
  </em>
  <span>standing there, watching Paul. A part of him was upset he fell asleep too quickly to speak to the apparition of George that appeared in his dreams. Another part of him was glad that he didn't have the chance to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aside from George, his dreams were a meaningless ramble, ending when morning decided to rear its ugly head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three days until the funeral. Four until the memorial. Call Pattie. Call John. Visit George's family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul wanted to say he felt like he was in limbo, but that felt wrong. After all, George was in purgatory right now and it felt disrespectful. He didn't get murdered, so he had no right to complain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(But who would hear him?)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He made his way to Speke, the same house he and George would beg Louise to have their band practices in. She always agreed, of course, often bringing in tea and snacks for them. And if they stayed until dinnertime, George's father would bring out a large roast and they'd all dig in. He's spent a lot of time in this house, more so after his mother left. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"She said she liked you more than me," </span>
  </em>
  <span>George complained, hunched over his guitar on the bed, fingering chords and experimentally plucking them. Paul bit his tongue, holding back the remark that it was painfully apparent George was her favorite out of her four children. The poor boy was coddled incessantly, which had caused George to be more than physically affectionate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In hindsight, George said that as to not be seen as a </span>
  <em>
    <span>momma's-boy, </span>
  </em>
  <span>always trying to look cool and collected. George was headbutts and bloody spit, greasy leather jackets and oversized cowboy boots. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had only taken five minutes before Louise's voice began to choke up, ten before the tears came. And Paul resigned himself into becoming a mask, smothering the wave of pain and guilt he felt and keeping it together for her sake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They talked about him, what else, for hours. So much so that it waned into the late evening and Paul noticed there was no Harold making dinner, no set table nor family meal. It made sense, he doubted anyone had much of an appetite, himself included, yet it made his innards ache.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh," Louise muttered. "I didn't realize how late it was." She fumbled with her hands in her lap. "Would you like some tea, dear? Harold's made some lemon bread, too."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul forced a smile. "No thank you," he said. "I should be leaving."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She closed her eyes and nodded. "That's alright. I suppose I'll see you in three days?" she asked, hopeful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul's throat tensed up. "Of course," he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That day, he had gotten out of his flat to visit, yet the small action was enough to drain Paul of all his energy. As he laid on his mattress, unconsciousness crawled all over him, dunking him into a deep sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Paul…"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Another dream. And like last time, it was of George.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You were right," Paul said. "About the world coming to get us."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Why's that?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>" 'Cause you're dead, mate," Paul huffed.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Don't feel dead, jus' cold."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then jus'— sleep on the settee, yeah? There's a spare blanket in the closet—"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Jus' let me in the bed. Come on, Paul— jus' like old times."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright," Paul huffed, throwing over the duvet to let George in. His arms snaked around Paul's waist immediately, long legs tangled up together. His mind felt disconnected from the rest of his body, and reality ceased to exist. Just him and George, in bed, so close there was no air between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>As it should be, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Paul thought before blacking out.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. But Not Forgotten</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The night passed in a blur and by the time it was morning, Paul didn't want to crawl out of bed, George still clinging onto him with a vice-like grip.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wait.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>George was dead. He was murdered. So </span>
  <em>
    <span>who was holding him?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul swiveled, scrambling to see. Behind him was a man, long and lanky, almost emancipated, with visible ribs. His long, thick hair cascaded down the arc of his smooth back, spine arched sensually. He looked tousled, groggy from being shaken by the small movement. Eyelids slid open to reveal two eyes, a deep and rich brown gazing back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul screamed, clawing through the sheets and onto the floor, landing with a hard thud before scrambling to the phone. Fingers flew, Paul constantly glancing at the bedroom. His hand was suddenly soaked in sweat and kept sliding off the dial.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Christ,"</span>
  </em>
  <span>  a voice huffed, heavily accented, low and deep, rough, but more tepid than usual. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"We used to sleep together all the time. Or am I really that hideous?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"G-George," Paul muttered. "You're not— you're a hallucination!"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I thought you couldn't talk to hallucinations," </span>
  </em>
  <span>George hummed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But you died—"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Paul," </span>
  </em>
  <span>George said. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Stop screaming. I'm right here."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul forced himself to look. Standing before him was George, hairy and disheveled, wearing nothing more than a pair of plaid pajama pants. It was what he was wearing when he died, Paul realized, seeing the gnarled wound running across George's lower lungs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Geo," Paul panted out. "You died, a few days ago. Got stabbed in the chest," he said, pointing at George's barren torso. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He saw George glance down, see the gaping slash, and experimentally poke at it. Feeling nothing, he stuck his fingers inside and wriggled them around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul wanted to gag. He could hear wet, viscous, squishing sounds as George rooted around inside his knife wound.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"But I don't feel dead," </span>
  </em>
  <span>George said at last. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"This can't be happening," Paul moaned into his knees, now drawn up to his chest. The funeral was in two days now and all of his anxiety and fear manifested into </span>
  <em>
    <span>George</span>
  </em>
  <span> standing </span>
  <em>
    <span>in front of him!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He needed a therapist. He needed help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He needed a friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took three times as long to ring up John's number. Although George, or whatever the hell </span>
  <em>
    <span>it </span>
  </em>
  <span>was, was not outwardly malicious, Paul's hands would not stop trembling. As soon as his number got through, all he could hear was his panting into the receiver. He cast a glance behind him. George was in the kitchen, pouring himself a bowl of cereal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah?" A sticky, groggy voice rang out. John must have just woken up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>John,</span>
  </em>
  <span>" Paul breathed out, a wave of relief washing over him. How wonderful it was to talk to someone! "I'm losing me mind."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then go for a walk," John huffed. "And stop hiding in your flat."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul paused. John's voice had suddenly sharpened, like a bladed poised to strike.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"John, what—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Georgie's dead, and only now do you bother to call?" From the tone of his voice, even through the distortion of the phone line, Paul could tell he was pissed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Paul croaked out. "I've been a mess and I need someone to talk to—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>needed someone to talk to!" John roared. "But you never bothered!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Please,</span>
  </em>
  <span>" Paul sobbed. "I'm seeing him. He's in my house—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"George is—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he could finish, George plucked the phone right out of Paul's hands. He hadn't noticed George had crept upon him, and before he could do anything, George put on a bright smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Hello, Johnny!" </span>
  </em>
  <span>he cheered. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Been a minute, ain't it?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul could hear John sputter, suddenly caught off-guard and without balance. The anger that had manifested was replaced with bewilderment. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Come on, Johnny, say something. Paul's been saying I'm dead and now I'm starting to think it's true."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The only sound in the flat was Paul's heart thumping in synchronization with his watch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You gotta be a ghost, then," John muttered. " 'Cause it's all over the news. What happened."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George nodded, then began to twirl the phone wire around his finger.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"So it's true, then?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Aye."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that moment, George changed. His skin became translucent and ethereal, his bones all visible. No longer did he pass for human, but instead a specter. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Tell me… tell me how I died. I want to hear it from you." </span>
  </em>
  <span>His voice had become hollow, like wind blowing through a cave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You got stabbed in the lung," John said. "And you were bleeding out. The policeman who was in the car on the way to the hospital, he said you couldn't breathe. That you were bleeding into your lungs and drowning right in front of him."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul could only stare in terror as George unraveled, his flesh hanging off his skeleton, murky, black blood staining his ribs and mouth. His eyes had sunken in so much that they were no more than two black voids on his face. Smoke poured off of him as extra limbs that had begun to fester.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Thank you," </span>
  </em>
  <span>was all George could muster before all the electricity in the flat died, and the phone clattered against the wall. On the table in the kitchen was a half-eaten bowl of cereal. George was nowhere to be seen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, as if it was an act of God, it began to rain. With the power out, the flat became frigid and dark, like an icy chamber. Paul cautiously called out to George while the sudden downpour that appeared got worse. He didn't know if George was doing it, but it seemed to be the case. Thunder flashed whenever Paul moved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"George—" he tried again but was cut off by the wind forcing a window open, the blinds rattling against the wall. "Haz— talk to me, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"What's the point?" </span>
  </em>
  <span>a hollow voice cried out. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Why am I still here?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't know, but— I'm glad. "</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He expected another flash of lighting to illuminate the room, but instead, the rain lessened. The droplets cracked against the window with a soft </span>
  <em>
    <span>pitter-patter.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"You're… happy?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not that you're dead," Paul hastily explained. "But the fact I got to see you again. Y'know, one last time."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George appeared before him from thin air. He was no longer melting, but his wound and mouth had blood dribbling out of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I'm still here," </span>
  </em>
  <span>he muttered. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"I'm not going, I'm stuck."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Would you rather be gone?" Paul quietly asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George shuffled in place, weary eyes scanning Paul. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"...I just don't know why you're the only one I could find," </span>
  </em>
  <span>he said. Paul raised an eyebrow, imploring him to continue. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"It's like, it was all dark, and you were the only person there."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Me? Not Pattie, or, or your parents?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George only gave a morose look in response. At that point, the same thought crossed their heads. They both knew the stories and cliches: George must have some kind of unfinished business in the material world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why me?" Paul asked. "What kind of grudge would you have against me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"...no one said it was a grudge," </span>
  </em>
  <span>George huffed, crossing his arms. His appearance had been shifting during their conversation until he looked human, albeit thinner and paler than usual.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The phone suddenly started up again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with that, George returned to his cereal and Paul found himself answering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if the past fifteen minutes hadn't occurred. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if George was still living.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It turns out John thought he was losing his mind when George spoke to him. He too had been having dreams about their friend. After the power ran out, he called Ringo in hysterics, who then failed to reach Paul. He contacted Brian, and Paul had to feign ignorance, lying about John and suggesting that it was all just the profound effect of trauma.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was scummy, but Paul did not want to be admitted to a mental ward. He lied, suggested they reach out to John, and quietly hung up. George had finished his breakfast and was now rinsing it in the sink.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I was thinking of going vegetarian," </span>
  </em>
  <span>George hummed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul blinked. "Yeah, I suppose," he muttered, trying not to ask about the purpose of it all was. George's body was most likely being embalmed; why did he need to eat?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Don't overthink it," </span>
  </em>
  <span>George hummed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Just be here, with me."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul found his legs marching over to George, sitting down next to the man. He felt an urge to go out and do something, get lunch, maybe go shopping, but he knew the press would hound him. Besides, he also feared that should he leave, the miracle of George would dissipate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I got a spare guitar," Paul said. "You wanna play?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George dried his hands off and turned away from the sink, hoisting himself up to sit on the countertop.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I'd rather you play and I'll just… watch," </span>
  </em>
  <span>he said after a moment. Before Paul could move, George slid off the counter and phased through the wall straight to the living room. Paul hurried behind him, staring as the ghost flew onto the couch and got comfortable.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I just remembered: the album."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"What about it?" Paul wondered.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"You were in your house all day yesterday, which means you missed the press release."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul gaped. "George, you died! How— Wh—"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Why does that matter? Wasn't like I was important."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>In an instant, Paul shot out his arm to grab George's wrist. He could see the way his flesh had grown more transparent, revealing the bones underneath.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>His appearance changes with his mood, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Paul realized. Sadly, though, his hand flew right through George, swiping through the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't say that," Paul muttered. "You're important."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"You're just saying that," </span>
  </em>
  <span>George said in a clipped tone. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"You know I’m not as good as you. You know my songs aren’t as interesting and I’m not as talented. You only kept me ‘cause the band needed four members and people would ask questions if one of them suddenly left."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"I— Geo—"</span>
</p><p><em><span>“There wasn’t a lot of things I wanted to do, but, but I didn’t want to die. I’d rather be gone for good than have to see the world turning without me. It’s so selfish, and I thought that I could handle it but I can’t. I want to go back, Paul.” </span></em><span>That last sentence came out as a whimper, George curled up.</span> <span>By this point, George resembled himself when he was younger, just a teenager.</span></p><p>
  <span>Before Paul could say anything, come up with an adequate response, George rose and shambled out of the room. The power had gone out in the middle of his ranting, and the weather picked up again. Paul found himself standing in the middle of the floor, suddenly alone, in the dark, and very, very cold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George hadn't reappeared for the rest of the day, and the atmosphere hadn't changed either. The skies were bleak and the light still refused to turn on. Paul wanted to slap himself; his best friend was murdered and never once did the thought of reassurance occur to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I'm a bad friend,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Paul thought, </span>
  <em>
    <span>so why is George here with me?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The answer was obvious: he had to make amends. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He quickly moved about the flat, searching. Should he fail, he'd go to sleep and try again tomorrow. He has to keep trying, but even after an hour of scouring and calling, nothing happened. He went to bed, partially hoping George would crawl back to him in the middle of the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn't.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So when Paul awoke the next morning with a shadow seated on the edge of his bed, he had to bite his tongue as not to scream with relief.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I'm still here," </span>
  </em>
  <span>George muttered. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"I've got nowhere else to go. I’m sorry." </span>
  </em>
  <span>He still looked younger than he usually did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don’t be: you were upset. Anyone would be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“But what’s the point anymore? I can’t do anything.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you can! You can touch things, and John could hear you! You can still write songs, and y’know, I could say it was something you played to me a long time ago— and like this, the press won’t bother you—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George shifted, turning so his body faced Paul, legs crisscrossed on the bed. There was a glimmer in his eyes like he was tearing up.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Paul… you— I think I've figured out what my unfinished business was."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul straightened, feeling unnerved by the way George was peering at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"You need to close your eyes first," </span>
  </em>
  <span>George said. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Alright?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul nodded, closing his eyes and hoping that it wasn't some elaborate prank.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn't expect George to take his hand. Earlier, Paul's body simply phased through George's flesh before. Yet now, his hands could feel George's, the way blood pumped and pulsed in them. They were warm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes slid open just a sliver and he caught sight of George leaning forward to kiss him on the lips. It was gentle, and Paul felt the roughness of George's lips, how they were hot and chapped.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I always wondered what that was like," </span>
  </em>
  <span>he hummed. Paul stayed still, afraid that the tiniest movement would make George vanish. They both sat there, George with his eyes closed, at peace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing moved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Maybe—" Paul's voice was suddenly dry. "Maybe you can try again?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George stared at him for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I mean, you can go to heaven or purgatory or reincarnate if you want to, you don't have to stay, but—"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Paul," </span>
  </em>
  <span>George muttered. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Did you just offer to let the ghost of your dead best friend kiss you again?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"I… yeah," Paul admitted. "I mean, it'd be rude of you to just dip after that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George's glare turned even harsher before he slowly leaned back, chest heaving. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Fuck," </span>
  </em>
  <span>he muttered, but this time, he was laughing. It was infectious, starting from a small giggle to a full belly-laugh, one that left George struggling to keep upright. He covered his face with his hands. Paul couldn't help but break into a grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I thought that was why I was here, with you. That maybe it was ‘cause I liked you but that was a long time ago but I couldn’t think of anything else—”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, hey! That’s good though, ‘cause you’re still here! We can— we can work it out—”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“...oh,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>George hummed, moving his hands into his lap. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I suppose so.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“And since you’re immortal, you’ve got all the time in the world now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George smiled.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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